Sorrow is one limb removed.
Pain is a smile torn deep.
Nude is the sound that lays the tune.
Bitten by the fingers that lashed you.
Marked by the virulent beast.
Flays of torches in the Shepard’s keep.
A lesion on her joy you shall see.
Upon which grandeur is perceived.
Grace is in it’s walk to freedom.
The meek shall disinherit the decadence.
Ingratiate her woes with mother nature.
As we are liberated from the moribund.
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